


The Solace of Sleep

by favabean05, frek



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/favabean05/pseuds/favabean05, https://archiveofourown.org/users/frek/pseuds/frek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six times Sherlock Holmes and John Watson shared a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Solace of Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This is a paragraph RP edited into fic. Frek wrote Sherlock. Favabean05 wrote John.

The first night was unintentional. Riding the adrenaline rush from the events at the pool, Sherlock found himself in John's room. He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sitting cross-legged on his bed and analyzing the events while John moved around the room, readying himself for sleep. He was still talking when John pushed down the duvet on one side of the bed and slid in underneath. Sherlock shifted on the bed and turned to face John. "You've been quiet tonight," he observed, watching John closely, wondering if the experience had left John rattled.

“Yeah,” was all John could say, his voice slightly rough with disuse. It was as if he still didn't dare utter a word since the moment Moriarty told him he couldn't. 

He hadn't felt anything like he had today, not since the war. He had been on the way to Sarah’s when he was blindsided at a corner, thrown into a car, then loaded up with that damned explosive vest and earpiece. Everything had been a long, terrifying blur, and suddenly he was at the pool with laser sights on him and Sherlock. There was a rush of relief when Moriarty left, followed by more gripping fear as Moriarty returned. John had given Sherlock permission to shoot the vest. He had told Sherlock to do what he needed to do, even though it could have killed them. They nearly _died_ that night, and John hadn't faced an imminent fatality like that since the bullet went into his shoulder. 

He shrugged the duvet up to his chin and nodded slowly. “Sorry, I've just been processing,” John offered the explanation softly, flexing his left hand under the covers a bit. 

Sherlock nodded, shoving the duvet down on the side he was sitting on. It had been an intense night. Sherlock honestly hadn't known whether they were going to make it out of the pool alive. He couldn't remember a moment before in his life that he had been that unsure of the outcome of a situation. The thing that stuck with him the most, though, was the absolute trust John had given him to make the right decision. Nobody had shown that much trust in him before and Sherlock was once again reminded how incredibly special John was.

"Are you all right?" He asked, seeing the uncertainty on John's face. 

John paused a moment before nodding, almost too quickly. Too sure. "Yes," he said quietly. "I guess so. We're alive, I mean."

He looked up to Sherlock, biting the inside of his lip. "Are, uh... are you?"

"I am," Sherlock replied. And he was, Sherlock knew, though the memory of first seeing John there still left him shaken. He had thought, for the briefest of moments, that John had betrayed him, the one person he had felt comfortable trusting. "Thank you," Sherlock finally said after a long moment, though he wasn't exactly certain what he was thanking John for.

John blinked over at Sherlock and furrowed his brows just slightly. “For what, Sherlock?” John asked quietly, scooting up a bit more on his pillow.

Sherlock raised his gaze to meet John's, realizing he'd have to explain himself. "For trusting me," he said finally, unable to elaborate further.

John smiled softly. "I, uh... If I didn't trust you by now..."

Ella had been right. John _did_ have trust issues. The relationships and bonds made in the military were the strongest he'd ever known, the only thing he'd relied on for years. When he was suddenly a civilian, a life he didn't anticipate having, he found that if people weren't in a uniform, they weren't worth getting close to. Sherlock had changed all of that within _seconds_. 

"Most people don't trust me, even after they've known me as long as you have," Sherlock said, dropping his eyes once more. Why was he telling John this? This wasn't like him at all to want to talk and share. John was different, though. Of course he was. He trusted him.

"You don't usually give people enough a chance _to_ trust you," John noted, beginning to feel his pulse settle. He was finally relaxing. "More people would if you just let them."

"Most people don't deserve that chance," Sherlock said, watching John relax into the bed, happy that John was finally able to calm himself after the night's events. Sherlock shifted in the bed, shoving his feet under the duvet, his toes cold in the cool air of the room.

“I’m glad you made an exception for me,” John said softly, settling into the bed enough to yawn softly. “And I’m glad I made the exception for you, too.”

John was slowly fading, the adrenaline leaving him boneless and exhausted. He was comforted by his soft sheets, heavy blanket, and Sherlock’s warmth beside him. Further proof that they had made it through the day, that they both had survived.

Sherlock leaned back against a pillow and turned on his side, facing John. "What exception was I?" Sherlock asked, smiling at John's sleepy yawn. He hadn't realized that John had made an exception for him much like he did for John.

“First one I could trust,” John said, a little slurred from drowsiness. “The first civilian I didn't hate.” 

"I don't hate you either," Sherlock said, smiling, feeling drowsiness wash up on him now that he was laying down. Sherlock watched John's eyes grow heavier and heavier, until he was no longer able to keep them open. "I'm glad that we made those exceptions, too," Sherlock murmured moments before he joined John in sleep.

\- - - 

John seemed to be the only one who was worried about Sherlock. Irene had vanished out her window with a callous, "He'll be fine." Lestrade laughed behind his camera phone as he watched John struggle under Sherlock’s limp weight. Even Mrs. Hudson chuckled at the sight of him. Only John even considered the fact that Sherlock may actually have a bad reaction to whatever the hell Irene injected into him. Her warning about choking on his own vomit had been taken seriously. 

After hauling Sherlock up off the floor and back into bed, John straightened the flat, turning off lights and making sure windows were locked. The one in the kitchen had been opened. John didn't remember doing it, but he closed and secured it up again. He paused on the first stair up to him bedroom, Irene’s voice in his ear. 

_Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit, it makes for a very unattractive corpse._

John instantly turned and went back into Sherlock’s room, quietly closing the door behind him. He undressed down to his pants and carefully slipped into the bed beside Sherlock. He had to make sure Sherlock would be okay through the night.

Sherlock had spent the evening since their meeting with Irene Adler in and out of a drugged sleep. Whenever he woke, John was there by his side, guiding him into the bed and making sure he was all right. This time, Sherlock woke up to the feel of someone climbing into the bed beside him. Sherlock peered at the man lying beside him, recognizing John immediately. 

Sherlock smiled and reached out, resting a clumsy hand on John's shoulder, words coming to mind, but his mouth felt wrong and he wasn't sure if they sounded anything like he had meant. The only word that he knew was clear, "Thanks," he had said as he squeezed John's shoulder.

"Shh, don't worry about it," John whispered softly, curling up under the comforter. "If you feel any worse than you are now, wake me immediately."

Sherlock nodded, watching John close his eyes, relaxing into the bed. He shifted closer to John, curling up against his back, forehead and nose pressed between his shoulder blades. This was good, Sherlock thought as he felt the drugs start to take over again. He was home.

\- - - 

John had never seen Sherlock in this state. He'd seen him mope, seen him silent for days. This was different. Sherlock was grieving and had been since New Year's. Sherlock had been closed off in his room for hours, nearly all day, the only sounds he made were the sad tones of his violin. 

John poured two cups of tea, placed them and the teapot on a tray and quietly walked to Sherlock's bedroom door, gently nudging the door open with his foot. 

"Sherlock? Want a cuppa? Just made," John offered, holding up the tray. 

Sherlock glanced back at John as he walked into his room, holding up a tray of tea. He continued to play the violin, eventually turning his back on John again. Tea could wait, he wasn't done composing. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. Empty and cold, like nothing could ever make him happy again. Composing would help. Eventually.

Sherlock played for several more minutes before he let out a low sigh and turned around once more. He set his violin back in its case and crossed the room to where John stood with their tea. "Thank you," he murmured, taking the warm cup in his hands.

"You're welcome," John replied softly, setting the tray on his nightstand. He sat on Sherlock's bed, his own cup in his hand, and watched Sherlock carefully. "Do you want to talk?"

Sherlock shook his head, taking a long sip of the tea, feeling it warm him from the inside out. "There's nothing to talk about," Sherlock said, following John's lead and taking a seat on his bed beside his friend. 

It wasn't that there was nothing to talk about, in all reality, there was much Sherlock could have said, had he understood how to say it. Emotions were tricky to navigate at best, and the grief that he knew he was feeling was unprecedented in Sherlock's life. He hadn't expected it to hit him so strongly, leaving him wondering about his own mortality and that of those around him. Especially his best friend.

"Are you sure?" John said softly. "We've been through quite a bit with... that woman. I've never really seen you like this before."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know what to say," he replied, his voice hushed. "I can't say I've ever really felt like this before."

“Can you describe it?” John sipped his tea carefully. “Like sadness? Grief?” John’s tea cup hovered in the air a bit as he paused. “Love?”

"Grief, yes," Sherlock said, looking across the room at the violin resting in the open case. "Emptiness," he added after taking another sip of his tea.

John rested his tea cup onto his knee. “Emptiness? Why is that?” he asked softly, surprised Sherlock was opening up to him even his little bit.

"I can't say," Sherlock frowned, shaking his head. He lifted the teacup to his lips, pausing, thinking. He let out a low breath, "Emotions are... difficult."

“Try?” John coaxed gently. “It’s not good to lock away your feelings, Sherlock. You know anything said in here won’t get past me, right?”

Sherlock looked up at John, recognizing the concern in his eyes. "It's not a matter of trust, John," Sherlock said, standing up and replacing his cup on the tray, before returning to sit back beside John. "I'm just inadequately equipped to discuss my emotions."

John nodded slowly. “Well,” he began softly, “then is there anything I can do to make you feel better? I don’t like seeing you so sad.”

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know. I need to fill the emptiness," he explained as best he could. "Composing helps, normally."

“Ah, well,” John nodded, slowly standing up from the bed to gather the tray. “I guess I’ll leave you alone, then. If you need anything... let me know.”

Sherlock watched John stand up and move around the room. He didn't want John to leave him behind, but didn't know how to ask him to stay. Sherlock felt conflicted and that emptiness in his chest had begun to ache. As John prepared to leave the room, Sherlock stood up and crossed the room and picked up his violin. As he started to pull the bow across the strings, he turned to watch John leave, before returning to his composition. 

The rest of the night was spent sitting in Sherlock's chair in the living room, watching the television on mute and listening to the sad violin from the other room. John stayed like that until midnight, when his eyes kept dropping and he couldn't stop yawning. He turned off the TV and walked to the stairs to his room, pausing momentarily at Sherlock's door. He thought about just calling out to tell him he was going upstairs, to make sure Sherlock slept. Anything. Any comfort. The words died in his throat and he shook his head, heading upstairs for bed. 

Shortly after Sherlock heard the footsteps pass his room, he put his violin down in its case, bow resting beside it. Sherlock turned and looked at his bed, empty and cold and lonely. He couldn't sleep by himself tonight, he knew. Didn't want to be so far from John, not when he was feeling the way he did.

Sherlock left his room, switching off the light as he made his way out the door. Within a few moments, he found himself in John's room, crossing over to the bed, leaving his dressing gown on a chair as he passed. He could tell John hadn't yet fallen asleep, and part of him was thankful for that. Sherlock slid into bed beside John, whispering as he did, "I didn't want to be alone tonight."

John smiled sadly and rolled over onto his back, looking over at Sherlock. "That's more than okay. You can stay here with me. It'll be okay soon, I promise."

Sherlock inched closer to John, "It doesn't feel like it." He leaned forward and rested his head on John's shoulder, wanting more contact between them. Needing it.

John startled softly at the head on his shoulder but slowly tipped his head to rest on Sherlock's. John reached down to gently hold Sherlock's wrist and let his thumb brush across his arm, something his mother had always done for him after a nightmare. He hoped it would somehow provide the same soothing comfort to his friend. 

"It will take time. That's the only thing that will help heal it," John said softly. "You have me, though," he added, trying to keep his voice chipper. "If I'm still... I mean, I'm no Irene, but... I'm still here."

Sherlock twisted his hand up in John's grip, brushing his fingers against John's arm. It felt good, the small touch from John. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you," Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes, relishing being so close to John.

John carefully pulled the duvet up to their chests, shifting to lay on his side facing Sherlock, both men still touching the other. John closed his eyes and settled into the bed, warmer now that he was so close to his friend. 

"Go on to sleep, Sherlock," John whispered. "Things will be a little better in the morning."

Sherlock nodded, relaxing beside John, holding onto his hand like the lifeline it was to him. "Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, feeling himself being lulled to sleep by the warmth of John's body nearby. "Goodnight."

\- - - 

John had never been more terrified in his life. He thought we was going to be killed in that lab, mauled to death as Henry's father had been. He could hear its growls, the tapping of its nails on the linoleum. He could almost _feel_ the demon hound breathing down his neck while he sat cowered in the locked cage, voice cracking as he begged for his life, for Sherlock to save him. 

When it came to light that it was all Sherlock's doing, that he had drugged John (intended to, anyway), he had been angry. His anger had faded by the time they boarded their train home, now replaced by the ghosts of fear that overtook him. The night on the moor had been as, if not _more_ , frightening than the day in the lab. 

He looked over to Sherlock in his seat across the aisle, perfectly calm. His head tipped back, eyes closed, hands folded perfectly across his middle. John sighed sharply. 

"How can you sleep?"

"I close my eyes and relax until it overcomes me," Sherlock replied, not moving from his position. He had experienced much the same fear John had, but thanks to his logical mind, he was able to move from the fear with the explanation he had understood.

John rolled his eyes and looked out the window as the countryside blurred past. He soon heard Sherlock's soft snores coming from across the aisle and John sighed miserably. Hours on this train and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink of it. 

Back home in Baker Street, John trudged up his stairs with his bag to his room, falling into the bed tiredly. His body needed sleep, but his mind was terrified of surrendering itself to his subconscious. Not after what he'd just seen. 

He unpacked. Then straightened. Dusted. Did every idle task he thought he could to delay his sleep. Eventually, exhausted (too exhausted to dream, John hoped), he fell into his bed with the duvet to his chin. 

They were instantly back on the moor, stalked by the demon hound. It attacked and John soon was screaming at the sight of red eyes, coal black and glowing fur, and dripping teeth as they sank into Sherlock's throat and tore him apart. 

Sherlock woke from his sleep, hearing John screaming in his room. Sherlock wasn't unfamiliar with the night terrors that John would sometimes get. When he had first moved in, it was a regular occurrence for John to wake up shouting. In those days, though, Sherlock wasn't comfortable going to John's side to comfort him, help him through the terror. Things were different now.

Sherlock climbed out of bed and quickly made his way up to John's room, pushing through the door. "John," Sherlock whispered, "Wake up."

"Sherlock!" John cried out in his sleep, whimpering sharply and pedaling his legs. "No... no!"

Sherlock quickly crossed the room and slid into the bed beside John, sliding an arm around his waist, pulling him close. "John, wake up. It's me. I'm here," Sherlock whispered, his voice growing louder the longer it took him to wake John. "John, it's okay."

John woke with a sharp whimper, eyes wide in the dark. He gasped and panted quickly, his mind working on overdrive. Sherlock cold, bloody beneath his fingers... no, Sherlock was _here_. Warm, soothing, strong arms around him, protecting him. He was alive. John curled up tighter, his head pressed into Sherlock's chest. 

"God, I'm... I'm s-sorry..." he choked out, trying to take a full breath and failing.

"Don't apologize," Sherlock whispered, holding him tighter, hands moving soothingly over John's back. "It's all right," he continued, feeling John sob and shake against him, working through the last dregs of his nightmare.

"You... h-hound..." John gasped, working to steady his breaths. "God, it killed you..."

"But it didn't," Sherlock murmured, holding John close. "I'm here, safe, thanks to you," Sherlock said, fingers brushing over his back still.

John wound his fingers into Sherlock's sleep shirt, his heart rate slowly coming down. He pulled back to see the faint outline of Sherlock's face in the dimmed light and he pulled a soft smile. 

"Thank you," he whispered softly. 

Sherlock felt his heart leap at John's smile. He was okay. He was going to be okay. Sherlock smiled back, reaching up and running a hand through John's hair. "You're welcome," he replied. "You don't have to sleep yet, but if you'd like, we can lay down?"

John nodded silently, not letting go of Sherlock's shirt. It was safe. It was grounding. John sighed slowly and curled even more against Sherlock, an arm snaking around his waist to hold him close. Within minutes, John was back asleep. 

\- - -

Sherlock had been gone for much longer than he had anticipated. Long enough that he was certain John would have put him long behind him when he finally made contact for the first time in years. But John surprised him again, like he always did. He invited Sherlock back into his life, back to their flat. And despite the way John had yelled and cursed at him when he first arrived home, they were still friends, their relationship slowly being repaired with each moment they spent together, talking, not talking, just being together.

The first night, the pair of them made no show of sleeping in their separate beds. They both made their way to Sherlock's room a short time after dark, an unspoken agreement in place between them. They needed it more than either would admit out loud.

Sherlock changed into his pyjamas while John was washing up, pulling back the duvet and sheets on his bed for the first time in a long time. The room was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He could smell John in the room, his scent lingering on the pillows, in the air. He'd been sleeping there while Sherlock was gone. Sherlock was caught up, gazing around the room quietly, when John made his way back into the room.

"Erm... bathroom is free," John said softly, nervous. 

He'd dreamt of this so many times, Sherlock home. Alive. Now that his dream had finally come true, John was so afraid of losing it. He was scared of waking up to find himself alone and crying in Sherlock's bed as he had for years. As Sherlock walked to the bathroom, John hovered at the doorway, unable to keep his eyes from his friend. 

Sherlock recognized how anxious John had become and it hurt him a little to know that it was because of him. He wished he had never had to leave John like he did, but it was necessary. Sherlock made quick work of his washing up and made his way back across the hall. "I promise I won't disappear again," Sherlock said as he crossed into the bedroom, seeing John waiting for him there, worry still showing on his face.

John ducked his head, sheepish. “Okay,” he whispered softly, nodding as he walked to the bed and carefully climbed in. “I really hope not.”

"I promise," Sherlock repeated, sliding into his side of the bed and switching off the bedside lamp. He turned on his side to face John, his heart pounding. He still couldn't believe he was home, that John was there. 

John slowly turned onto his side to face Sherlock, his eyes trailing over his face. He carefully reached out a hand and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s soft hair, now cut much shorter. He trailed his fingertips down his temple, along his cheekbones, and past his jaw, absorbing all of it. Sherlock was here. He was warm under his touch. He smiled softly and slipped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, curling up against his chest.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered softly, his eyes already closed.

Sherlock closed his eyes as John's fingers moved over his face, the gentle way his rough fingers moved over his features, like he was trying to memorize them. Like he had forgotten. When Sherlock found John's arm around him, he slid his around John in kind, pulling him closer, holding onto him like he had dreamt about all those years. 

"I've missed you too," Sherlock replied, letting himself relax into the embrace, into the bed. Things were finally falling into place, John and Sherlock and Baker Street. Home.

John breathed Sherlock in, letting his presence fill him, replace every shadow of grief with incredible joy. He curled up closer and let his eyes close, knowing that when he woke up, he’d feel Sherlock beside him.

\- - -

They were chasing a suspect through an office building, cornering him in the north stairwell. John was ahead of Sherlock by a flight and closing in on the suspect quickly. Sherlock heard the scuffle beneath him and he couldn't move fast enough. John shouting, the loud sound of something or someone hitting the ground hard, and then the sound of someone receiving several hard kicks. Sherlock's stomach turned, fear flowing into his veins. _John_.

He covered the last flight of stairs faster than he had ever moved before, closing in on the suspect and John. He saw John on the ground, not moving and a wave of absolute terror rolled through his body that he was too late, that John was worse than hurt. Sherlock looked up at the suspect who had just realized Sherlock was there. He practically launched himself at the man, slamming his body to the ground, before throwing several punches to his face. Sherlock only backed off when he heard the footsteps in the stairwell that he knew were the police.

Sherlock left the man on the ground dazed and immobile to turn to John. It only took him a moment to realize that John was all right, alive, but hurt. The relief that he felt in that moment left him practically dizzy. The next few hours were a blur of activity, getting John on a stretcher and to the hospital, doctors treating him, and eventually getting John into a room to rest for the night.

It was in that room that Sherlock found himself several hours later, sitting in a hard plastic chair, leaning on John's bed, watching his face for signs of consciousness. He was exhausted and hurting, but nothing mattered to him except that John was okay and he wasn't going to sleep until he could talk to him again, hear his voice.

As John slowly came to consciousness, the first thing he realized was that he _hurt_ almost from head to toe. A throbbing ache in his head and a sharp stab with each breath. Concussion. Probable broken rib. He blinked his eyes open, falling on the unfocused blur at his bedside that slowly sharpened. Sherlock was hunched over, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin. He almost looked like he was praying, if John didn't know any better.

“Sh’lock,” John rasped softly, his mouth and throat dry as a bone.

Sherlock snapped his gaze up, looking up into John's face, seeing his eyes open. His heart leapt, a small smile creeping up on his lips. "John!" He said, forcing himself to stay in his chair, to not jump up and wrap his arms around John. He was hurting, he knew, bruised ribs, the doctor had said, possibly more, but nothing had shown on x-ray.

Sherlock reached up and cupped John's cheek gingerly, biting his lip as he looked at his friend. "How are you?" he asked.

John found himself leaning into his touch, smiling gently. “Been better, but I’m all right,” he replied, his voice a little stronger. “What about you? Did you get him? Are you okay?”

"I got him," Sherlock said, smiling despite the tears that threatened. He had been afraid. Afraid the worst had happened. "He may have paid more than he would have otherwise because of what he did to you," Sherlock admitted, hand still on John's cheek, thumb brushing over the skin tenderly.

John smiled softly, a slight flutter in his stomach at Sherlock’s gentle touch. He leaned into the touch even more. “Nothing permanent, I don’t think,” he croaked quietly. “H-How long have you been here?”

Sherlock glanced up at the clock on the wall. 3 am. "About ten hours now," Sherlock said. He glanced down at the bed a moment. "I've been waiting for you to wake up. I didn't want to miss it," Sherlock confessed, looking back up at John, his cheeks tinted pink.

John smiled softly and laid his hand along Sherlock's at his cheek. It felt nice. It felt _right_. "I'm sorry I couldn't get him," he whispered. 

Sherlock shook his head, "It's fine." He could feel John's palm over his own, radiating heat into his cool fingers. He paused and stared back at John for several long minutes, heart pounding, relief filling his body. He was okay. John was going to be just fine. 

"I'm just glad you're okay," Sherlock said finally. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't..." And Sherlock stopped there, his voice trailing off. He couldn't voice the unthinkable, the very thought bringing tears stinging at his eyes.

John saw Sherlock's eyes shine and he reached his other hand up to cup his cheek, running his thumb gently under his eye. 

"What are these?" he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. I wouldn't leave you. You mean... far too much to me."

Sherlock forced a weak smile at John's words, unable to stop a few of the tears from falling. He took a shaky breath and nodded his agreement. "You're the most important thing in my life," Sherlock said, voice soft. It took a lot to admit that, for far too long he had insisted that The Work came above all else, even after he felt differently. He needed John to understand what he meant to him.

John felt warm at Sherlock's words, wiping away the stray tears that fell down his cheeks. He knew he had felt this way about Sherlock for far longer than was proper and to hear Sherlock say...

He pulled Sherlock down gently to press a soft kiss to his lips. When John drew back, he gave a small smile. "You're the most important thing in my life too," he whispered. 

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, the ghost of John's lips on his still there when John pulled away. Their eyes locked and suddenly it was like everything had changed. John had kissed him. Admitted the same thing Sherlock did. This was more than friendship, Sherlock knew. Much more. Sherlock smiled then, the first real happy smile he had since John got hurt. He leaned back down, pressing a careful kiss to John's lips, afraid of hurting the doctor in his excitement, a thrill rolling down his spine to know that this was real. 

John smiled against Sherlock's lips when they kissed a second time. Once is a risk. Twice is the reward. He kissed back, pressing up as much as he could into it, sighing through his nose. John was floating, unable to believe this was really happening. He pulled back and couldn't help the grin, his cheeks pinked. 

"I, uh..." John said softly, blushing and scooting over carefully in his bed. "You look exhausted."

Sherlock smiled, his own cheeks warming at the suggestion. He stood up and pulled his coat off, leaving it on the plastic chair, his shoes right in front of it, and crawled into the bed carefully, laying on his side so as not to hurt John. He placed his palm flat over John's stomach fingers splayed wide, and leaned in as close as he dared before brushing a soft kiss over John's lips. "Thanks," he whispered as they parted.

John leaned back against Sherlock's chest, smiling softly. He held Sherlock's hand at his stomach, lacing their fingers together. His pain medication and body's exhaustion was taking over, eyes drooping. 

"Be here when I wake up?" John murmured, starting to drift off. 

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's temple, eyes growing heavy as he whispered against his ear, "Always."


End file.
